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Amanda Shelton Aug 2016
Oh no my porcelain is crumbling,
decay has come to eat me away.

My porcelain cracked,
my porcelain
turned black and yellow,
my porcelain fell to pieces
in your hands,
I started to crumble.

The glue didn’t last,
the hold wasn’t strong enough
to keep me from falling apart
like glass.

My porcelain was once new,
but with use,
my porcelain couldn’t handle
such abuse.

Come save me,
make me a heart of gold,
make me brilliant
and eternally yours,
a porcelain doll with a heart of gold.

I surrender to your fix,
to your application
and programming,
for I am broken and
I need your fix.

My porcelain heart is
broken and crumbled,
nothing is left but dust and ash.

Porcelain heart's weren't meant to last.


© By Amanda Shelton
Like a porcelain doll,
So small and fragile,
Handle with care,
Or she will break.

Like a porcelain doll,
Her heart is made of glass,
So handle with care,
For it may break.

Like a porcelain doll,
so fragile and small,
Yet so beautiful to look at,
Handle with care,
Tender hands, gentle tongue,
Or she may break.

Like a porcelain doll,
So fragile and small,
Or she may break.

This is how you make me feel,

Like a porcelain doll,
who you need to handle with care.

Like a porcelain doll,
Whose heart is made of glass,
or it will break.

With tender hands you care for me
with a gentle tongue you talk to me.
How is it that you make me feel so fragile,
As if I'm about to break.
How is it that you make me feel that only within your hands I'm looked after and that if I'm in another's hands I will break.
How is it that if its another voice I hear,
I would break?
miki Aug 2020
i’m still looking for the version of america that was taught to us in school.

the america where the flag that stands
stands for everyone’s freedom,
not just those whose skin is made of porcelain.

the america where those who protect and serve
protect and serve everyone,
not just those whose skin is made of porcelain.

the america where all are welcomed
and we welcome everyone with open arms,
not just those whose skin is made of porcelain.

but i guess this is only the america that lives inside my head.
the america that never existed.
where “everyone is free”
yet everyone whose skin isn’t made of porcelain is seen as a felon, a ‘bad man’, a walking disease, a theft...
as an inferior.
and the stars and the stripes that so gloriously fly
even in the darkest of nights
no longer stand for freedom.
because this “freedom” only applies to those whose skin is made of porcelain.

what makes the porcelain people so different than those whose skin is made of velvet?
when the version of america where that question is answered exists, take me there
because
no one is free, until everyone is free.
Mandi Oct 2017
A porcelain doll of such perfection
  how they love your skin so fair
  and the depths of your dark eyes
  and your long and flowing hair
What an adored, beautiful angel
  truly the perfect porcelain doll
  but on the inside you are hollow
  there is not beauty there at all
A porcelain doll of imperfection
  with beauty that lies skin deep
  there adoration of you is a
  misconception
  a tragedy for which I weep
For I know that you are no angel
  that you have fallen far from grace
  you are just another devil in disguise
  with a perfect porcelain face
And when that porcelain shatters
  they still refuse to see
  all the cracks in your character
  that are very plain to me
A perfect, porcelain goddess
  an ever radiant porcelain queen
  how they worship the mirage of you
  blind to the truth that I have seen
I wrote this several years ago out of deep anger and scorn toward someone that in truth I love wholeheartedly. I grew up competing for my parents affection and whereas I could do no right my sister could do no wrong. It brought great hurt that turned into bitterness and ultimately destroyed us. I am happy to say that we have rebuilt our relationship into something beautiful, but for a long time we barely spoke to each other.
Keith Skyy Nov 2011
My vision is a blurry mess
As I awake and peel my face from a cold tile floor.
My hands rest on a smooth cold surface,
Porcelain.
As my vision spins I ease myself to my knees,
Using the porcelain.
Remnants from the previous twelve hours spill from my mouth,
Into the porcelain.
The metallic taste of blood is lingering on my tongue,
The color red clings to the color white
Of the porcelain.
I try to piece together how I got to where I am.
Where is it that I am?
Why am I where I am?
I push myself to my feet,
Using the porcelain.
I push down the silver switch and watch,
I watch as water washes my stains away
From the porcelain.
My vision turns to stars.
So I sit,
Sit upon the porcelain.
It is then I realize where I am,
I am in my home.
I turn and look to the mirror for guidance,
but I do not recognize the person I see.
I slide back to the cold tile floor,
And as I do I feel my head crack,
Crack upon the porcelain.
And once again red clings to white,
And the red slowly runs,
Runs down the porcelain.
Olivia Kent Apr 2015
PORCELAIN CASTLE.
She lives in a porcelain castle.
She's stuck in a butterfly net.
Forgetting that they ever met.
One another, each other together fighting always.
Ever biting back.
Porcelain's not good for castle building.
Don't you dare to forget, ever, never ever.
Porcelain castles they crack.
Fragile people hide inside.
Regretting things they can't decide.
Of yin and yang and cymbals bang.
Religious sounds of church bell clangers and hangers on.
Earrings of pearls and churlish girls.
Mothers and fathers and buckets of laughter.
Porcelain's not good for castle building.
Don't you dare to forget, ever, never ever
Porcelain castles they crack.
Clairvoyance dispelling of tears, well spent.
Destroying dark rumours over years and years.
She's crying without trying.
There ain't no more lying.
No biting or fighting.
Retrospective viewing the past with regret.
Heading for Dignity,
Luck of Lady Grey Day.
(c) Livvi
Milah Apr 2015
The strings are pulled to wake you up another day collecting dust.

You look in her eyes while she stands and smiles, all you see is a distant reflection watching the work through her eyes as time passes by.

You porcelain doll is chipping away on the inside. As she shatters and breaks

Glass sprawled out on the floor you watch her get cut as she tries to pick her self back up not wanting to anymore.

She's locked out the world you little perfect porcelain doll with her once perfect hair, smooth skin and big beautiful eyes that let you in.

And yet you still don't notice how your once little perfect porcelain doll is shattered and cracked and hasn't said a word she silently stops picking up the pieces and thinks in her old broken mind just how many lies and secrets can this old chipped porcelain smile hide. But one day you little perfect porcelain doll will shatter and break and so will her old chipped smile. And you will finally see that your little perfect porcelain doll isn't so perfect at all.
Ariel Baptista Nov 2015
Hair burned into beautiful submission
Face acrylically defined and chemically composed
Adornments meticulously chosen
Scent tested and approved
Smile practiced and performed
I am a porcelain doll
Sipping tea, at 6 am in the quiet of a sleepy-city apartment
Porcelain doll dainty wrists
Washing dishes, feeding cats
Folding linens, singing hymnals
Praying for peace and safety
Porcelain doll knitting sweaters
And folding paper cranes
Reading poems, setting tables
Wearing cardigans and pearls
Porcelain doll decorating cupcakes
Lighting scented candles
Watering potted plants and humming childhood lullabies
With my porcelain painted lipstick mouth


But lipstick can be dark
Eyes lined black as city alley ways
There is anger at injustice
The world outside the confines of a pastel doll house
It’s messy
It’s hard
It’s iron and concrete and coal
And I am too
Biking through the brick metropolis
Sunglasses and headphones
And anarchist literature
Evenings spent sprinting through the smog
Heartbeats synchronized to the crude drumming of the city
So hard to impress
I’m on the metro
Eyebrows structured and defined
And adorned with a calculated air of apathy
See me social justice march
Down highways with fervently entitled youths
See me armed against misogyny
Until my peers learn to better conceal it
See me smoking cigarillos
Drinking black coffee
Breathing the tainted air of the city that birthed me
And chanting manifestoes.

But my manifesto can be love
And love can conquer anger and fear
And hatred
Love can reconcile, it can erase timidity
And it can abolish resentment
Let it wash my face and take the need for vengeance from my spirit
Let it replace the thirst for power with thirst for truth.
I burn incense
And wear long skirts
Naked face and braless lazy days
Reading pacifism in the park
I walk far to find pure air to breathe
I sit and deconstruct my dichotomy
Under a wise and ancient tree
I trace myself backwards and forwards
I meditate on the paths I have traveled
I cry for the things I have seen
And for the things I have done
I contemplate transcendence
I drink wine and listen to folk music
On the terrace of my home
I bike barefoot to buy Indian takeout
And eat it in silence on the floor of an empty room

I think only of death
And resurrection
Of betrayal and redemption
Of opposites and compliments
And how to progress in knowing how divergent pieces of myself can learn to harmonize
I think about minimalism and materialism
Sentimentalism
And swords and pens
And how this race I run was rigged from the start
I think about blackberries
And the complexity of their literary and symbolic significance
I think about the number seven as I see it reoccurring in every possible sequence and equation
I think about God,
And TS Eliot
And If I dare disturb the universe
I think about porcelain dolls and ****** activists and ***** hippies
I think about war and peace and politics
About corruption and poverty and imperialism
About western ideals and conspiracy theories
And communism
I think about being radical,
And how both sides of this ideological war are defined by fear
And I think about love, as radical but defined by the absence of fear
The absolution of fear
And how I am fairly certain it is the answer
I think about the inevitability of art and war
how they create each other
how they destroy each other
inspire each other and annihilate each other
and how there is nothing that is innocent.
I think about pain and privilege
And stacked decks of cards
I think about dreams and nightmares
And prophesy.
I think about the darkness within me
Tendencies to lie and manipulate and steal
The darkness that I know could make me very great
But alone in the ashes of the world
I think of the curse of wealth and power
And I try to evaluate my motives
And the driving force of my ambition
But I don’t know.
I think about grace and all the things I don’t understand
And toil and fate and destiny
The shape of these things, their origins and culminations
And what this black box of secrets contains.
I think about so many things,
Until everything I was on the outside is gone.
My body is gone
My painted face and sculpted hair
My varnished nails and pierced ears
All my clothes and appendages and freckles are gone
My blood evaporated
My brain an invisible energy in the wind.
My home and street
And city
Are gone.
And even in such complete concentration
When it is only my essence and nothing else
And I transcend throughout my past and future
When I am spread thin
And stretched into the corners
When I fill the cracks and crevices
And melt into the pores of everything
And my spirit is awaked to a dimensionless reality
Even then,
Scio Nihil

I know nothing. .
It's long but an accurate depiction of how my brain works. Written this summer back when I had to much time to think about everything.
Andrew T Hannah Jun 2013
A Surreal Epic of Existence

Prelude to the Journey…

I smiled yesterday when I beheld the morning’s brilliant colors,
Etched with gold, across the canvas of the heavens, hanging…
High above all those mountains of the world, gigantic brothers,
A wilderness of clouds, where there can be no human taming.
I did not always smile when I looked up to that noble height…
For I have seen how terrible goodness can be, when untamed.
Once I thought my sojourn in this flesh was from a divine spite,
But now I know it was a gift, and for it I need not be ashamed.
God once walked as I do now, and suffered the same stress…
Betrayal, love, and passions too, though no Church shall admit,
The true nature of divinity, lest all their secret sins they confess!
You are told you are alone in the universe, by leaders so unfit,
That they themselves are fed a diet of lies and stories invented.
But we walked amongst you since the very dawn reincarnated,
Having lost our first flesh in conflicts long past and unlamented.
We guided the steps of ancients, as monuments demonstrated!
And yet we are born as children: your own, and live our span,
The better to remain hid, in plain sight, our faces clever masks.
I am the eldest, and I remember still my kindred’s lofty plan…
And though I wear the human face, I am beset with alien tasks.
Helping they who lack the knowledge to see what lies outside,
You have seen me in the darkness, blazing upon my own pyre.
Where I am waiting to lead the way, where the angels glide…
Anyone can follow, if they are dedicated enough never to tire.
Ironic, since I myself have known helplessness and still oft do,
It is only human after all, and in your form I was so re-forged!
The image of God, whose own blood is in all of us hither unto,
From the first to the last, alpha to omega, like a sharp sword.

Prologue: (My Mask is Slipping)

As a child: I was a servant at the altars of the heart so sacred,
Singing hymns of the immaculate: without seeing the depravity.
It was only when I myself wore the crown of thons, naked…
My spirit exposed through my pain, that I realized the gravity.
What man believes is sacred, is profanity disguised as graces,
And those who lead the sheep to slaughter are mere butchers!
Forcing innocents to wear porcelain masks to hide their faces,
They rob children of their childhood, bound with crude fetters.
As a teenager: I walked in nature, disgusted with all humanity,
My exodus was from those who had defiled all I cared about.
Finding faith in an angel fallen, I discovered my own sanctity,
And in her name I found the means to cleanse my feral doubt.
Then came marriage, and betrayal by a wife I gave up all for,
The dissolution of our union then loneliness without cessation!
A mortal had pierced my flesh, leaving me to bleed on a floor,
My heart was torn from its’ moorings without any elaboration.
But the angel remained to calm my anger and ease my agony,
My only light in the blackness that has overcome my waking!
Reminding me, that I was more than this flesh and mortality…
The angel tries to keep me from harsh trembling and quaking.
And then I see: I am more than my tears and life’s traumas…
I let slip, the mask behind which the scars of my tears etched.
Then I sense the heat of the night more intense than saunas…
As I long to dance with abandon, until time itself is stretched!
Mortals may betray one another with impunity, but never I…
I do not betray; rather I pour my heart and spirit forth whole.
Creating a phylactery, of all I am, and with an innocent eye…
I demand to be loved as I am: pearl white and black as coal!

Canto 1: Sacrifice of the Doll

Part the First: (The Bleeding Shores)

Do not call me, doll, for I have departed your ancient cavern,
You are lifeless, a mere toy, and not a real child in any form!
A boy’s red ruby lips I spy drinking in the dreariest tavern…
Whilst true children singing, frolic in the fields filled with corn.
I am going home, upon the wings of the great silver griffon…
Far from the shores now bleeding red from defiled memories.
There is no return, for me, to the glories of the first ignition…
When the mind eternal, was ignited all with pleasing ecstasies.
In the stars, there are words unheard that I do want to recall,
For I came down so very long ago, among the first to so fall!
Eldritch nightmares born of the stuff of the pure chaos of old,
Are waiting for signs at the threshold to be released by magic.
The forbidden incantations return to my spirit, aflame so bold,
That my spirit nearly forgets: the origins of this time, so tragic.
When children drink, and true children hide themselves apart,
Whilst the waters bleed and the corn withers upon the stalks!
That is a sign that change must come, and so I work my mind.
The face in the moon is a grimace of tormented fear, horror…
Whilst I stand upon the precipice with my hand over my heart,
And amongst the long rows of corn, my black shadow walk!
Watching over the innocents whose souls are of my own kind.
The summer heat turns orange, the moon: in celestial corridors.
My mournful cry can be heard in the sound of the lonely wolf,
And in the wild abandon of the lion when he is on the prowl…
I feel the pain of nature, I long to bring back paradise craved.
I have seen the terror of the land, as the blood ran in the gulf,
Black blood of the earth: which causes living things to howl…
As man has the foolishness, to say what is or is not depraved!

Part the Second: (The Crucified Souls)

The doll is laid lifeless atop the altar, prepared for a sacrifice,
In the cavern where the limestone shapes the wettest arches!
A thing un-living, but with living souls trapped still, as if in ice,
Within the cold porcelain shell that so never with feet marches.
Serpentine blade held high, it drops precise into a doll’s neck,
And it cannot call out, because a doll has not any voice to cry.
A boy walked out of a tavern then, looking like a vile wreck…
Whilst as a man I attend to higher things, my body full purified.
In the voids beneath the spaces, witnessed in the rugged rock,
Voices echo loud in the darkness, calling up names unspoken.
The ferryman brings the souls delivered to him, to a far dock,
Where each must pay the copper coin, the old desired token.
So they come to drink those waters that cure all of life’s ills…
Freed from their porcelain prison to feel death’s darker chills!
Whence came those souls into captivity, no mortal may speak,
But I freed them in an instant, removing the nails that pierce…
Every man is he that was put up on the cross of old Golgotha.
And every woman too, as all were made to feel such torture!
I was there when the primal sacrifice was implanted so weak,
And yet so strong that it endured in the psyche all these years.
That doom was sealed behind a wall of fire long ago in Terra,
So that the stigmata of it might endure, even in the vast future!
Mine was the hand that signaled that doom, mine to release…
Yet, still old illusions persist, and I cannot awaken a multitude.
I, who devised the iron web that enfolds much of what is real,
Cloaking it in unending trickery am, myself, longing for peace.
For I too was entrapped, until my liberation rough and crude!
An angel freed me, and now I strive to break each cruel seal.

Part the Third: (The Return of Light)

Risen from the slumber where colder, electric dreams reside,
The forgotten intelligence is invoked, the arcane spells cast…
The eldritch nightmares return to thence amongst man abide,
Reminding us of the things banished to Hell in some age past.
Mine the hand that raised them up, light in the dagger’s glow,
The stuff of my power left to flow, like blood run swiftly free.
Out of the abyss, rises the girl-child of a lost millennial flame,
She who is the angel reborn lets her illumination clearly show.
And all are blinded who have not the innermost eyes to see!
The unbelievers are, in a single instant put unto lasting shame.
From the star of six points, a goddess works her sacred will,
And as she crosses the scarlet threshold, she brings the light.
For a single instant, all in Heaven and all upon Earth are still,
As the long day ends, bowing before the coming eternal night.
In the darkness, radiance far fairer and so perfect descends,
Whilst those who gather in my name: have lost my true path.
The wrath of angels descend upon their minds, closed shut…
Entrapped in the iron web, they cannot flee of such a prison!
The light blinds them for they never truly saw it, and it rends,
Tearing away the churches built for naught but mortal wrath.
There, the unfaithful ******* themselves: like a wanton ****,
Inventing dogma to pass on, forgetful of logic and of reason!
Faith need not be a fearful thing, yet some have made it thus,
And look for an end to come before they seek their reward.
Whilst they should be creating the paradise they left behind…
But in an image of freedom: rather than of servitude and fuss.
Too much time had been wasted in converting by the sword!
Mankind looks to the light for salvation, their eyes long blind.

Interlude Alpha:
This age is one of barbarism cloaked as gentility to sell lies…
Did you purchase some today by design or mayhap chance?
You should know this era to be neither intelligent nor wise…
Else you would not march, when you would prefer to dance!
My nights are filled with nightmares; my days are too much…
I used to dance with one I loved, and bask in purple sunsets.
Now I am haunted, by so many memories I can never touch,
That it fills me with ****** anger, and countless cold regrets.
I recall how once in desperation, my wrist rode a razor edge,
If it were not for my family I’d not thence have lived beyond.
A man abused as I was, and used like cutters upon a hedge,
Must rise higher than it all in order to survive it all, my friend!
I survived, I transformed, I ascended and in the end became,
So much more than I was, until no more did my spirit erode.
But still I wait in loneliness for a maid to awaken my flame…
And I burn, oh gods I burn until I think that I might explode!
The skies darken more and more, and bright forks crashing,
I hear the drums of fury in the heavens, giants of old winters.
The gods grow angry and I behold trees uprooted smashing!
Angels are trampling the grapes of man; they, the vintners…
I am reminded of when the battleship that sailed all galaxies,
Descended one day amidst clouds boiling with its’ steam…
To lay waste to *****, and Gomorrah, for their indignities!
I was there, when the wicked did perish with a final scream.
And as people mock me, wishing me ill because I am good,
I ask God how long I must be forced to bear such suffering.
But I am not alone, and to many I am in fact misunderstood,
So God forgives, for now; but I have not, his understanding!

Canto 2: Sacrifice of the Spider

Part the First: (The First Smile)

Black skies boil with rage unrepentant, and in righteous fury!
A being made flesh I am, though not of mortal understanding.
In cavernous places I have walked, where demons oft scurry,
And worse places still: in search of a love not too demanding.
In the stucco halls wherein my unmoving throne was raised…
Upon a hill of sorrows where lost souls labor in mundane toil,
I wait and plan to transcend the bonds the faithful so praised.
To my right hand is the altar where fire and sulfur always boil!
I force a smile upon my face, for one will not come as willing,
As in the hours when I was a golden youth filled with ideals…
Which I have paid for dearly, beyond the price of any shilling!
Now I long to pay back those who know not how this feels…
The madness born of solitude, the anger born out of contempt,
For you who despise me without cause, provoking my wrath.
What impunity has man, to think that he might ever be exempt!
When wiser civilizations than yours did sink: in the fiery bath.
Do I speak of Hell, which the faithless do not realize is come?
Nay, for their eyes have been gouged out by their own nails…
I speak of torments, far beyond that which devils have done.
The first smile shall me mine, when every cruel wish so fails…
To save the flesh of those who spit upon me as I walked on,
Never realizing that my face was just a mask, hiding another.
Only the fool pays no any attention to the piper’s lonely song,
Thinking it only a melody passed from a sister unto a brother.
But in what celestial ****** has been born the thing alchemical?
It dwells within me, the secret sin of a bonding long forgotten.
Would that I could force the world to hear music whimsical…
Like unto that which guides my spirit in all that was begotten.

Part the Second: (Cold Revenge)

The blood roses bloom in gardens where desire plants seeds,
I, the hand that waters those hungry beasts whose thirst rises!
In my search for love, I have fed the beasts of desire’s needs,
And what would cause you to blush has, for me, no surprises.
Oh human, with what impunity did you dare to exclaim aloud,
That you believe love to be beyond my reach; and you smile!
Like a coward, you degrade me and run to hide in the crowd,
In your feigned superiority, you make yourself an animal vile.
Conjoining your words to your tongue, like a web to a ceiling,
You become a spider; then flee on eight legs to a filthy nest…
Having already become unworthy of any warm human feeling,
In thinking yourself better, you sink lower than all of the rest!
That means my life is worth, a thousand times, your very own.
I become a creature of the night, and wait for you, oh spider!
Think not that I cannot hear. the creaking of each leg bone…
Your odiousness goes before you, the horse before its’ rider.
And in your own web I catch you, my sharper claws immune,
To your toxic poisons, as cannot ever save your eight eyes…
Which I dash from their sockets, without a fear, and so soon,
That your own pain consumes you, like fire lighting the skies!
Forcing you to recant all that you say, lest pain overcome all,
The powers you thought did not exist do manifest ever visibly.
And I ascended still higher, all the more to relish of your fall…
You should never have resulted to any such childish mockery.
The clocks of your house all melted, for time is not your ally!
In abandonment of the chaos that is joy, your order is ended.
A new order rises in its’ place born of chaos none may deny,
Whilst you sink lower into perdition, for all that you offended.

Part the Third: (The Last Laugh)

An angel appears before me and so thinks herself a goddess,
But to call her an angel is to imply that she holds any beauties.
Those whose ego is larger than their grasp are oft the oddest,
For they fancy themselves perfect, ignorant of their cruelties!
You think love a prize and I a beggar for mere crusts so stale,
That lesser men than I have eaten heartier meals than yours…
But your kitchen is so bare: as your oven goes cold and pale,
Making you prize yourself beyond the worth of your chores!
Like a harlot who charges a fortune for her meager charms…
If you think love a prize, and I a beggar, you are so mistaken.
What you call love is a disease that shames one and harms…
Both mind and soul alike, making the body at last to weaken.
You saw only my mask, and would not dare look beneath…
Making me a phantom in the darkness, lurking in the shades.
Round your neck, your false esteem hangs as a dead wreath,
As I leave you to your barren world, awaiting my handmaids.
They rise from the ashes you leave in your wake, my kindred,
Their hands take me far from where your feet stumble about!
Lie in the cemetery that awaits those who live as though dead,
I cannot raise you incorruptible; you have far too much doubt.
Carried hither by the silent maidens who weep ****** tears…
To my castle, where I shall brood again upon mankind’s way!
I cannot feel regret for those who give in to their foolish fears,
Any more than I can transform a leaden night into golden day!
Such is the power of the alchemist who knows his true limit…
And in the dark arts I was schooled by beings from the abyss.
Thusly, am I set about to transform my creation as I see fit…
We are the demiurges of our realities wanton for any hot kiss!

Interlude Omega:
T
I found this one in my basement. Seems I wrote it a year or two ago but lost it.
archwolf-angel Mar 2017
Bent and broken
Your heart made of white porcelain
Cracks on the inside
Mends on the surface

Torn and tattered
Your wings made of white porcelain
Feathers falling
Still their guardian

Scarred and ripped
Your fingers made of white porcelain
Bleeding through cuts
Hiding strains

Dear you
Made of white porcelain
Let me take over
So I can remove your pain
Love,
Your Knight
L Aug 2015
Porcelain
Are you wasting away in your skin?
Are you missing the love of your kin?
Drifting and floating and fading away

Porcelain
Do you smell like a girl when you smile?
Can you bear not to share with your child?
Drifting and floating and fading away

Little lune
All day
Little lune

Porcelain
Do you carry the moon in your womb?
Someone said that you're fading too soon
Drifting and floating and fading away

Porcelain
Are you wasting away in your skin
Are you missing the love of your kin
Nodding and melting and fading away

Little lune
All day
Little lune
RHCP

**
Leigh
A Watoot Apr 2015
Dragged in the corner of the room
My porcelain face started to crack
But I was made with eyes that cannot cry

I was given to you as a present
I was a sign of prestige for young girls
But I was put behind the wardrobe

I understand my looks gave you creeps
But my smile was genuine
Yet my stare was far off from this world

I wasn't given a life, only pretty colors
Etched on my skin were features of a human girl
On porcelain skin, I cannot show emotions
I have a victorian porcelain doll hidden behind my closet.  It kinda creep me out so i placed it behind my wardrobe.  I wonder if this is her life.
Emma Oct 2017
Porcelain face,
Scarlet dripping from your veins
too beautiful and vain
for this world it was pain
Porcelain eyes,
Make no disguise, Those glossy tears
they lie on your
porcelain cheeks
rosy red sheek
As you lay,
Like a porcelain dream
MysteryBear Nov 2014
Hid my tears with makeup
      Curled my hair despite the burns
   Pierced through my desperation for
                            earrings
       Some may call me an attention
                              *****
        Or a girl who finally embraced   
                     her feminine side
                      But I don't care
      Your opinion is the only one that
                            matters
But you had the audacity not to notice
               *Your Porcelain Doll
Lauren Rayne Jul 2013
Chests of toys come to life
When lonely homes do not breathe voice
The bears and soldiers, rag dolls and all
Fill the void ‘til the clock strikes two.

They come about, a dance to be held
The rag dolls and stuffed animals gussy,
The bears and soldiers puff out their chests
All but one will join the rest.

Her chestnut tresses lay gentle on her crown,
Perfect lips slightly pouted, painted like her cheeks,
Ivory skin glistens in rays poured from windowpanes,
Gray porcelain eyes peer down from atop her shelf.

The soldiers and bears gaze up at her,
Beauty obvious to the simple eye,
Though all simple eyes’ minds think they know.
They know the nature of porcelain cold.

She understands, as she would think the same.
She sits away, alone upon her shelf,
Alone also in kind, she is shy.
She wants to tell them otherwise,

To see beyond her porcelain eyes.
aria xero Oct 2012
The porcelain tiles felt chilled
against my bare back,
each one crawling
injecting into the pores of
my skin, they scalded into
the core of my bones.
Water lavished twin bodies,
Scorching feet and
exploding senses,
they ran across naked
forms, exploring every inch
just like our lust soaked fingertips.
We stood close, breath
shared between us,
Chests heaved in anticipation
as we became drenched
in the moment.
He grabbed my hair
in messy fistfuls,
Lips dripping
with flavor, his taste
was infectious as it seeped
into every inch of my being
we merged, one
like the sun sinks into the ocean.
I sank into him, giving myself
all of myself to ecstasy.
Like a drug, I was addicted
as each finger danced across his spine.
We dove in together
gasping at every breath
clawing at the rapture stained tiles
twisted hands entangled
squeezing for release
over waves of unrelenting pleasure.
A soft cry shot through
our submerged affair
awakening rolling figures
we became still, the rain
continuing to tap upon ourselves.
A single touch from his lips
expressed agony later to come
As we lay together on that
Still porcelain tile.
rjh Jan 2017
it's hard to be in love with a girl made of porcelain.

she's there; so angelic, so soft, so fragile.

you want to touch her.
it's easy to promise she won't break,
hard to follow through on it.

but the problem,
believe it or not,
is not the breaking her.

it's that when you break her,
you pick her back up and put all of those tiny pieces together.
you look down at your hands, and there she is.
tiny pieces of her embedded in your skin.
it's going to be hard to get her out.

it's hard to be in love with a girl made of porcelain.
but it's even harder to be reminded of the love lost
and the damage done
when you look down at the small scars
covering your palms.
i've got writer's block -- BAD. hope you guys enjoy anyway. constructive criticism always welcome!
<3 rjh
Candy Glidden Jul 2010
Picking you up
Tears fall down my face
As I look into your eyes
The ones I once loved
There is nothing.

Holding you in mid air
I ask, "WHY?"
Angry and hurt, I curse you
It was my heart, my heart
Not yours....never yours.

The beautiful smiles
The innocent heart
Dying just to be loved
Lips like that of rose petals
No other soul so complete.

As I hold you in my hands
The reflection I see, is not you
Lest mine eyes misjudge the reflection
It is evil that lurks about you
Slithering through your veins.

Afraid of my discovery
I fall to my knees
Asking God for the forgiveness
Of the crime I am about to commit
Killing the only one I ever truly loved.

Holding you higher, I glare into your eyes
Once what was beautiful, is now evil
I loved you, I needed you, you killed me
Now your death awaits you
Here in my own loving hands.

As I lower you into my arms
I look deep into your eyes
The Porcelain doll I once loved
Who's beauty captivated the world
Most of all, captured my heart.

Your head I bash onto the floor
Awaiting to hear you scream
Each time I bash, I yell every word
that reminds me of who you truly are
Deceitful, liar, dishonest, and fake.

To your death I take you
Leaving you no time to beg
As for me, I am once again complete
Knowing that you cannot hurt me anymore
I am strong, and I will survive.

As for you, my sweet, little porcelain doll
You shall forever be nothing more
Than pieces of my life that I ripped apart
thrown into a plastic bag
Buried in your favorite rose garden.

Everyday as I walk passed this garden
That we so lovingly planted together
I smile, not in remembrance of you
But in remembrance of the life
you gave to me, and the death I gave to you....

My little Porcelain Doll.
Copyright2005  Candy R. Glidden
Zeeb Jul 2015
Hotrod
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feelings of excitement not unlike those of Christmas mornings long past paid visit to the young man, his head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Did building that Lionel train-set so long ago form some type of pattern in his brain, now being so pleasurably served?  The good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.  He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding.  He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy out.    Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings, feelings known only to those with a true capacity for this type of passion, would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.   Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
Fire extinguisher? “ Right there”
Battery? “Charged and connected”
Neutral?  “yes”
Brake?  “Set”
And with hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence, in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw  a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.   One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times.  Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, white blouse slightly unbuttoned,  both in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the bone yard.  Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0.030” overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work truck from which it came.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications “on the mark”, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy stayed  worried the whole time, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.  “ You can compromise on paint”,” live with some rust”, he would say,  “wait for good tires”, “but never scrimp on the engine”.  Right on.  You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  They were looking out for the boy.  The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability, and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit – to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to “red-line”, and it keeps pulling hard and delivering power while spinning fast because it is breathing right and proper and producing the power that thrills, and the only reason to shift gears is to preserve connecting rods, eager as the engine may be to rev further!

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    


He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!


Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The ’55 I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job” channeled “Two Lane Blacktop”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Now, expensive calipers, as eye candy, are all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can, and the owner of this ’55 had done just that. 

Two things seem to be at play here.  One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.   Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Something I had defacto permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, the racer replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two carburetors were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall vibe of the scene, and the clean work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment he planned.   I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

End
Brea Brea Jun 2013
I exposed my ******* to the clovers
and the clover reveled in the exposure to porcelain forests
from days of bronze and days of clay
the brothers and the fathers
for the mother
at her feet, kneeling
travel wreaths of holly
porcelain children in their stead
the sun bleached wheel of life is turning
and with the poor man's banners
needles in our fingers lead
blood under our nails
we weave further down our destined columns in the field
in the fields
under an overlaid full moon
lulled together into our lovers bed
lulled together into our mother's and father's homestead
I am moved
I am touched by the ridged shell of the crab
as it holds on
clutches to what the earth has
what it knows
as was done to me,
I will hold this child's hand
the mothers sing and they pant
up the hill we carry with fervent hands
new trees for the Porcelain Forrest
from days of bronze and days of clay
this is where our sun bleached vertical bones will be lain
Emily Kaminski Oct 2014
Look at where you are now,
look at what's become of you.
I'm so sorry that you have turned to pieces and dust.
All from letting your protective coat down,
from people who mistreated you.
The sad truth is,
that you're just the image of me,
how I feel inside.

Broken porcelain doll,
Broken porcelain doll,
who once was so beautiful,
but has fallen into so many wrong hands.
Hands that keep on breaking promises,
and those broken promises is what destroyed you.
Now that you're broken into pieces and dust,
we play a game,
a game that gambles this so called 'fate'.
Let it decide, for you to be thrown away,
or for you to be created into a new.

It's so unfortunate,
how many cruel people exist.
Due to their own experiences and choices they make;
from hurt, loss of values, corruptions and influences.
Yet, knowing the way they are,
they have the nerve to 'keep a promise'.
They think they can keep one,
though of eventually, it's forgotten.
Those are one of the things that made you fell apart.
These broken promises breaks you into pieces.
Sadly those people still exist.
They fend on the fragile creatures like you,
on the moment it's in their sight,
to keep breaking them all apart.
That's what makes them satisfied.
Sorry I went blind for a while,
poor you.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be.
For you to be created in this world,
that's filled with heartless souls.
So rest now,
you warn out, faded broken doll,
and just gamble with 'fate'.
Just waiting what'll decide.
I'm sorry,
I couldn't make you solid, no more.
For now, I'll gently caress whatever's left from you.
Broken pieces of porcelain, dust, and materials from your clothes.
The least we can do
is wish for the best to happen to you;
To be created into a new.
You never deserve this my inner-self.
When it's in a format like this, it's a song. THIS IS ONE OF MY SONGS THAT I WROTE! Don't take it! It's too precious!

There you see!? I posted a song! Happy now, Paul? XP
Hidden identity Oct 2012
The cold makes you porcelain.
I pray your porcelain's sustained.
Please stay like this forever.
An infinite image remains
Of Beauty in veins
Shown blue in skin now pallid evermore.
Why can't I join you
In dreams of winter and eternal brumal slumber.
If only I could grant myself,
Frigid serenity and repose.
And come to find you once again
Dancing in November snow
Salty rancher spackle is to Earthy diva smackers as Swinging hotel number is to?
Rippling cling bread is to Three lizard chariots as Indigo lime tangent is to?
Nighttime reunion planet is to Nettle lane scuffle as Soaking spider *** is to?
Fancy trance logs are to Sticky fudge lather as Vivacious gator college is to?
Cheerful blossom face is to Secret tractor rocket as Canned gremlin emblems are to?
Jealous pitchfork generals are to Heartbreaking patchwork veranda as Folding robot noise is to?
Pretty rhino rash is to Lost locket vengeance as Back pocket weather is to?
Frosted candy sidewalk is to Sneaky kook code as Shiny waffle smoke is to?
Sapphire cloud romance is to Magnetic comet lava as Blue triangle envy is to?
Vanishing honey melody is to Thermal elf pajamas as Whistling iceboat shampoo is to?
Peach mint politics is to Frozen doll pennies as Rusty anchor catapult is to?
Swollen pony fever Throbbing sword kazoo as Silent turbine science is to?
Obese germ thunder is to Stacked lemon towers as Corrupt moon jockey is to?
Demented insect whistle is to Glass trophy cleanup as Purple geode bubble is to?
Nighttime razor slime is to Lacquered dragon maps as Tint paper mittens are to?
**** camel drops are to Velvet ****** shoes as Slippery red muffins are to?
Flying hot drool is to Pale chocolate telescope as Tin trumpet ballet is to?
Expensive puppy speed is to Flowered duck mirror as Cosmic needle factory is to?
Fractured laser doodles are to Cracked butter gravel as Rubber holster straps are to?
Majestic panther fortress is to Jeweled cork target as Iron swan taxi is to?
Poisonous pepper bouillon is to ****** goat soap as Chrome feather pirates are to?
Digital gorilla scriptures are to Timid hunter stench as Frozen domino video is to?
Eccentric troll opera is to Transparent wax village as Spoiled coral agony is to?
Bizarre green metal is to Pillow eating hamster as Leather cavern ***** are to?
Eternal hurricane evidence is to Powdered rainbow perfume as Smoking yellow prune is to?
Liquid wish cleanser is to Exploding meadow ladders as Brittle rose hammer is to?
Caged foam filter is to Cherry balloon string as Ivory cactus spider is to?
Carbon puppet watch is to Sad kings compass as Elastic lace whiskers are to?
Nitrogen trolley dust is to Lazy elephant toffee as Orange toad choir is to?
Dark pole zodiac is to Blue finger blanket as Illegal bug nozzle is to?
Stinky towel cookies are to White jade caskets as Sticky snail tea is to?
Converting stellated caramels is to Mythic aerosol socks as Rubber raspberry jokes are to?
Flying clock carousel is to Whisky nut worms as Plastic fish platforms are to?
Queasy Vaseline queens are to Moody pigeon pills as Aqua mice fur is to?
Spotted bowl shadow is to Idiotic radiance lotion as Bungalow toad hearse is to?
Gushing chimney fungus is to Funky lamb acrobat as Utopian **** sprinkler is to?
Twinkling bungalow tablet is to Botanical duck rope as Bug hat ram is to?
Broken clock fossil is to Black ginger confetti as Parisian cobra meatloaf is to?
Silly Xerox ribbon is to Obedient raccoon carny as Traditional cat linguini is to?
Last astral advisor is to Elastic badger riddles as Broken circle rifles are to?
Bagged squire channel is to Temporary mosaic cake as Ancient bacon thread is to?
Wireless math army is to Moronic neon money as Pearl razor radar is to?
Rubber buzzard blizzard is to Troubled bubble wizard as Crushed hash ******* is to?
Purple birdy cure is to Tangled frost blossoms as Silken bridal saddle is to?
Unisex owl accordion is to Sugar bottomed boat as Optical nougat treasure is to?
Flavored saline rain is to Black arrow clan as Transistorized clam guitar is to?
Sharpened twig scar is to Mutant beet sonar as Baked troll mask is to?
Boxed noodle secrets are to Traditional guru buttons as Glossy marshmallow strategy is to?
Vibrating melted jelly is to Silver furniture dream as Spewing collated seats is to?
Burnt mountain pickles are to Baby preacher shoes as Sympathetic pilot pain is to?
Narrow portal treaty is to Monkey warehouse vacancy as Painted tornado trap is to?
Porch penny sulfur is to Glowing pony fat as Patched mattress bait is to?
Frigid waitress fallacy is to Graphic shrimp salute as Misted sneezing window is to?
Moist apple moss is to Daddy’s zoom seed as Downtown Pope cart is to?
Tired felon trickle is to Holographic squirrel candle as Wild ray hay is to?
Deadly zero chalk is to Folding wilderness chart as Curved ******* vacuum is to?
Hollow porcelain pellets are to Strawberry rain stencils as Microwave taxi nomads are to?
Wasted machete balcony is to Crumpled creature confessions as Fridge fuzzed fruit is to?
Sloppy demon damage is to Squeaky puppet chuckle as Mental arcade combat is to?
Monster trout stories are to Lewd pirate cocktail as Locked mammal grommet is to?
Rotting rope network is to Tragic toy goat as Cotton submarine shoes are to?
Complex pepper dance is to ****** cloud cushion as Marching taxi holiday is to?
Mental petal collectors are to Spooned barn putty as Dork factory fiction is to?
Hot spotted tops are to Timed stepping pests as Yogurt notching tartar is to?
Crazy dog comics are to Ambitious cartoon sphinx as Pavlov’s zinc ballet is to?
Soiled spinster wedding is to Padded razor wound as Floating fish map is to?
Slippery leopard pants are to Perfumed nut button as Dart wizard party is to?
Needy alien elephants are to Barking garden gnats as Quasar focused paper is to?
Slanted heart **** is to Bronzed cliff sandals are to Cunning jockey jokes are to?
***** thumbprint massage is to Holistic princess memory as Sliding dental sword is to?
Drifting wood whistle is to Fluorescent carpet powder as Foam dragon whistle is to?
Chopped web shadow is to Immortal vermin soup as Collapsing porch conspiracy is to?
Stolen thunder chant is to Haunted comet heart as Swollen throat portrait is to?
Fragrant frost parfait is to Grumpy caveman *** as Random stingray solo is to?
Squeaky polar turbine is to Silent lava fever as Oversized lunar fulcrum is to?
Synthetic dew droppers are to Pocket poster paste as Hypnotic screen dog is to?
Symbolic whirlpool nausea is to Dreaming tree phantom as Log badge bracket is to?
Camp hippo map is to Horseradish seizure insurance as Distant insect mirror is to?
German lady sherbet is to Stuntman laundry wax as Hungry butterfly ghost is to?
Fly smudged foil is to Amped maze coil as Shifting optic terror is to?
Automatic sheep floss is to Panoramic tanker anchor as Throbbing bone pillow is to?
Mutant clown village is to Nightmare translation treasure as Spotted spectral chakra is to?
Blind roach tweat is to Hermit worm tiara as Divine logo ritual is to?
Glueless gun stamp is to Malicious spam pump as Floral toffee pods are to?
Dudgeon mist removal is to Menacing bolt smacker as Boating duke shadow is to?
Costly metal plungers are to Creaky buzzing gushers as Glowing star cushions are to?
Raked barge sludge is to Crusted cream glitter as Zircon gutter babble is to?
Fake gold scholar is to Amish ******* mogul as Faithful ***** choir is to?
Sacred limo prayers are to Fried mice café as Splintered ****** thimble is to?
Dealing rabbit decals is to Pelican bongo festival as Patched equator rot is to?
Freedom gourd gasoline is to Cobblers studying acorns as Desecrated dice crater is to?
Tattered tapestry rod is to Busted particle scanner as Bogus piffle catalogue is to?
Trifle truffle raffle is to Last lamb laminate as Segmented cake goggles are to?
Domestic tackle tactic is to Ticking tic talk as Cordial corps coordinates is to?
Tucked duck caftan is to Sunken ramp ruckus as Wretched ranch rhetoric is to?
Clearly incomprehensible directions are to Useful archaic nonsense as Antiquated skeletal outline is to?
Bewildered beasts feasting are to Lazy busybodies resting as Vaccinating brave volunteers are to?
Lucky wagon dragons are to Famous gargoyle gargle as Formal postman funding is to?
Furrowed shroud chowder is to Borrowed tartan pajamas as Martini mixed algebra is to?
Cowgirl balloon helium is to Chewy glucose habitat as Stationary monument movement is to?
Diamond powered powder is to Diagonal diameter diagram as Purposely condensed expansion is to?
Organic iodine capsule is to Gleaming beach probe as Dominant dome static is to?
Shaving wrinkled targets is to Petting sensible monsters as Selling invisible whiskey is to?
Frozen piano architecture is to Note dotted clouds as Screaming Korean worms are to?
Sonic plant website is to Telepathic climbing clam as Bored protein exercise is to?
Gourmet mollusk cone is to Numb poodle caravan as Asian raven radar is to?
Arthropod King Nov 2011
It is at this point.

I usually am very effussive with words and all that, but I just don’t have it in me in this moment.

I no longer remember the last time I felt life cascading into my limbs, from my heart.

Apathy :P

It seeped into my weary shoulders.

Bleh bleh bleh bleh

Words are a waste of *****


Melancholy deeper into the upitty piper purportedly…


Silence. Silence and silence, but why…?


Snow – Nieve – Plumba – White-out – ***** on porcelain – Aruba -










***** on porcelain.

















A faint portrait of hollowed passions and GRAPEFRUIT.
I… I’m sorry, really. I got nothing. I wish I was so noble as to turn bitterness into something majestic, but what are you going to do about it, right?... Right?... Right?.... RIGHT???.........RRRIIIIGHT????? Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff, right? Ra-ra-right?



nO? OkEy DoKeY, then…







Words are stupid, They always have been. Words irritate people and cause wars, and controversy, and celebrity gossip and all that intoxicating pink, glittery smoke. I wish there was a machine, like a bird-making machine, that used dusted, vivissected concepts and turned them, unaltered, into spewed energy. A violent discharge of emotion, but no, no emotion, whatsoever, NO EMOTION AT ALL, cramped and jammed up inside like, like, like, like a trainwreck, still perplexed about the fact that it didn’t have much room to wreck havoc with in the first place, and go smash into burning-red steel debris, so it doesn’t, no no no no, it doesn’t know just what to do, and the innocent bypasser is looking, looking from a dusty cliff among the desert, UNABLE TO FEEL ANY EMOTION, INSENSITIVE, and it was supposed to be christmas, but no one’s weeping for you, no one, that ****’s out of fashion, you’re **** out of luck holmes, clusterfuck full of ****, and ****, and bad luck, sorry holmes, no way, ******* luck, sorry holmes.

Bloh bloh bloh ilhc 674VDW864 A6WD8 4wd 64 WD 64c 6 4wf c6




















Ronald McDonald, sitting on a curb, face resting
upon the palms of the hands, no happy meal for this clown,
no lipstick-painted and make-up-enhanced
smile on the face of this clown, not today,
doesn’t feel like being
a clown today, even though he WAS born a
clown, from a colorfull egg full
of Crayola polka dots, no, and no, and no,
and who would want to be a clown?
Certainly not Ronald McDonald,
and certainly not today.
And words are stupid*.

I wish tears could flow cascading out of these eyes. Redeemer tears, pointing at the crude sculpture that the chisel of undrained emotions carefully crafted inside these tiresome intestines.

Rioted tears, a revolution of tears. I would very much like to scream right now, thank you very much.













I wish I could cry bitterly, weep sorely for my fate and for hers.




























However…




There is nothing in my chest but apathy.

I have no nerve response.

Zero sensorial signal.

So… I can’t.











































Whatever.
PoserPersona Jul 2018
Leaves, sticks, and seeds make up this six foot stalk.
Oh, how she blooms before the flashing lights!
Leaving men and women with a stunned gawk.
Oh, you cause the seeds of your kind at night,
to dream of heights they won't reach; how sadly
try the delusional. But in all kin,
is imprinted least a scar on their psyches.
Sacrificial offer in porcelain
is ritually performed by some daily.
If not for fame, glory, or money, then
to mirror fashion people's ideal beauty.
A cyclic mental disease that won't end.
Shhh.. Here she comes! The first, but not the least.
An appetizer for the famine feast!
Pedro Tejada Apr 2010
Please pull your pants towards the floor, my dear.
Let me handle that meat lying on the full-size bed.
Don't be timid-we're all premature adulteresses in this room.
Johnny, come quickly towards my sighing need.
Making me want to scream your entire name by these seas of flame,
especially when your sweat seeps through the ridges of my bliss!

Your lips make my throat two walls of dried sin.
I live to take hold of your
Chocolate
Porcelain
Caramel skin.

I can spend hours looking at your full lips.
It's the feature that separates boys from men.
Force me down, prove me wrong with those promising threats.
Hold onto that ****** until it borders on violation.

While I could maintain an appalled expression at my reflection,
you prevent this with your numbing *******.
Wading in a murky puddle of lust is fresh air moving with you
and the tongues slithering all the way up to my shivering legs!
Keep on whispering while you make me speechless!
Keep on getting stronger while you make me melt!

You strip me of my innocence with a devilish grin.
That must be why I love your
Chocolate Porcelain Caramel skin...
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?


one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..
Steele Jan 2016
His teeth brush her skin and she flinches.
Breathy gasps on shifting eyes
Slide across the icy air, and inches
Of separation mark porcelain lies.

Porcelain teeth mark crimson brands
And whiter still the skin where wedding bands
Rested not long ago
Upon skin that recoils from his perfect hands.
And choices that only she can know.
Devin Bardot Feb 2014
You think you have a clue, run the game, as you will.

I will humor, play along till I've had my fun and my fill.

First signs of your deceit, you'll soon discover your poise.

Not as simple as you planned, your pleas will be but noise.



Burn all in your path, a beautiful death knell.

Reap their hearts endlessly, send 'em all to hell.

Never the one to falter, to be on the fall.

You live callous, a blackened porcelain doll.



Pain be your outlet, you're a numb fatal conduit.

Do unto others, know how it goes, why think to quit?

Relieve the pain, **** runs downhill, does it not?

You refuse to be on bottom, though you cower from the top.



Burn all in your path, a beautiful death knell.

Reap their hearts endlessly, send 'em all to hell.

Never the one to falter, to be on the fall.

You live callous, a blackened porcelain doll.



Burn all in your path, a beautiful death knell.

Reap their hearts endlessly, send 'em all to hell.

Never the one to falter, to be on the fall.

You live callous, a blackened porcelain doll.

I'll bring you down to your hell, these demons you've amassed.

We'll have so much fun, punishment burns your  guilty ***.
November 2012
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
an atypical journalistic interview sessions only lasts a few minutes: you know, you know, you knows... mostly arranged by eager liars and boxing-ring butchers of the chop & jabbed jobless... or as i like to call it to their faces when they recuperate at rock concerts with their slaughterhouse day-jobs: head-banging meat-heads; you know, one of the lads, yeah man, you know - can i start speaking sing-language from now on? i swear they're speaking sign-language already, i understand them in the boxing ring... outside of the boxing ring... huh?!

the same with modern music, it just loves
Bach or Chopin accents / diacritics / samples...
Salmonella Dub's song *problems
,
i don't know why it acquires the said critique,
moby's porcelain...
these are accents of once world know narratives,
the narratives are gone, but the
accents remain... once we had Chopin's piano,
now we have transition pieces
akin to Thomas Newman's 18 from the American
Beauty soundtrack... now the Emperors say:
too few notes... cos it's a real tear-jerking masterpiece...
finally people of all professional categorisation learned
punctuation and the assembling of data,
the point of shelving things... of
not keeping thought for the purpose of simplified
narration, but as a way to escape into idea identifying
post-narrative ensured dynamos...
what remains of classical music, is but
a sense of diacritical marks not applied to language,
what is left as a wasteland...
the modern version of classical music is but an accent
of what classical music used to be: the alphabet,
the narrative, the narrative arrangement...
we're left with accents... the piano is an accent...
something Mozart used to touch...
when Mozart wrote the a b c,
                   Thomas Newman just wrote the acute
                           above the c...
    because classical music is so scarce, so rare
that it requires an elephant and a poacher,
but hardly the egg...
                                       so when Mozart wrote
a b c... modern licks of the piano
                   wrote a jingle... licks...
              modern resurrection of the classical
narrative, when Mozart wrote his bit,
Charlie Harper wrote the acute sign above something
resembling a character named C to make him into
chimney, thus the scalpel ', yes, that's the linguistic
scalpel         '                      , which isn't a comma,
to dissect words...             play me a ******* Irish medley
you ****!                        
                           sophism says: all punctuation marks
              revolve around securing emphasis.
tell that to a twelve year old, and in telling them that:
how to create an ontology to differentiate them from
politicians and establishing them as
                                          eager hands that became
                 the roots of modern China, and the principle:
         family, root, family, root,
                             or your granny with far more to worried
about than you standing over her grave, meaning
she ******* herself in a care home and you were like:
     but my life!
                                  i moved my great-grandmother into
my grandmother's house... they sarcastically called me
a beneficiary at her funeral, you know how family is...
they're always ******* cannibal, they want you to have
three arms so they can chew one of them off
and instigate the lazy option: Satellite Plato TV in
their homes... to lazy to even have a decent thought:
forget thought leading to morality,
let's just keep it French enlightenment: thought
precipitating into existence... which is hardly any sort
of triangular or rhombus square definition of
behavioural patterns of macaques.
for ****'s sake: when Chopin wrote c, modern
music sampled the same piano as the acute sign above
c, i.e. ć, dissection: Moby's Porcelain is Chopin i.e. c,
the two together are ć... which is read
by dissecting the words itch cheese chi chee and
putting them back together like some sort of Frankenstein
in order to just get the acute sense of stressed c...
CTRL... C and P... then it's either just African drumming
as in excess rhythmic when it was once woodwind
sections... so Chopin without Moby's Porcelain would
just be c... with Porcelain we get ć... it's not a representation
of an itch, or a twitch... it's just ticklish, mind you,
the two are inseparable: and the rest i just like
to call ambience, or anything you could never claim to
make an onomatopoeia out of - if only it was
that simple: i'd call the practice of onomatopoeia the
craft of carpentry or stone-masonry -
knock on wood: get a whale's mating call in the deep blue...
******* magic in the desert of pampered journalism...
pampered journalism... i like that, i like it like
the idea of defending Saddam Hussein... pampered
journalism... here's a fake... oh, and another...
here's another fake... mascara drool here... and another
one here... **** me, a miniature golf course of ideas...
hard not to be pruning the delusional idea of
"this is Utopia" by western media's *******
into a handkerchief that's designed into fishnets of *****
than that of tearful sympathies with:
well the animal stories always sum things up, don't they?
queue
I

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And in the morning summer hued the deck

And made one think of rosy chocolate
And gilt umbrellas. Paradisal green
Gave suavity to the perplexed machine

Of ocean, which like limpid water lay.
Who, then, in that ambrosial latitude
Out of the light evolved the morning blooms,

Who, then, evolved the sea-blooms from the clouds
Diffusing balm in that Pacific calm?
C'etait mon enfant, mon bijou, mon ame.

The sea-clouds whitened far below the calm
And moved, as blooms move, in the swimming green
And in its watery radiance, while the hue

Of heaven in an antique reflection rolled
Round those flotillas. And sometimes the sea
Poured brilliant iris on the glistening blue.

                        II

In that November off Tehuantepec
The slopping of the sea grew still one night.
At breakfast jelly yellow streaked the deck

And made one think of chop-house chocolate
And sham umbrellas. And a sham-like green
Capped summer-seeming on the tense machine

Of ocean, which in sinister flatness lay.
Who, then, beheld the rising of the clouds
That strode submerged in that malevolent sheen,

Who saw the mortal massives of the blooms
Of water moving on the water-floor?
C'etait mon frere du ciel, ma vie, mon or.

The gongs rang loudly as the windy booms
Hoo-hooed it in the darkened ocean-blooms.
The gongs grew still. And then blue heaven spread

Its crystalline pendentives on the sea
And the macabre of the water-glooms
In an enormous undulation fled.

                        III

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And a pale silver patterned on the deck

And made one think of porcelain chocolate
And pied umbrellas. An uncertain green,
Piano-polished, held the tranced machine

Of ocean, as a prelude holds and holds,
Who, seeing silver petals of white blooms
Unfolding in the water, feeling sure

Of the milk within the saltiest spurge, heard, then,
The sea unfolding in the sunken clouds?
Oh! C'etait mon extase et mon amour.

So deeply sunken were they that the shrouds,
The shrouding shadows, made the petals black
Until the rolling heaven made them blue,

A blue beyond the rainy hyacinth,
And smiting the crevasses of the leaves
Deluged the ocean with a sapphire blue.

                        IV

In that November off Tehuantepec
The night-long slopping of the sea grew still.
A mallow morning dozed upon the deck

And made one think of musky chocolate
And frail umbrellas. A too-fluent green
Suggested malice in the dry machine

Of ocean, pondering dank stratagem.
Who then beheld the figures of the clouds
Like blooms secluded in the thick marine?

Like blooms? Like damasks that were shaken off
From the loosed girdles in the spangling must.
C'etait ma foi, la nonchalance divine.

The nakedness would rise and suddenly turn
Salt masks of beard and mouths of bellowing,
Would--But more suddenly the heaven rolled

Its bluest sea-clouds in the thinking green,
And the nakedness became the broadest blooms,
Mile-mallows that a mallow sun cajoled.

                        V

In that November off Tehuantepec
Night stilled the slopping of the sea.
The day came, bowing and voluble, upon the deck,

Good clown... One thought of Chinese chocolate
And large umbrellas. And a motley green
Followed the drift of the obese machine

Of ocean, perfected in indolence.
What pistache one, ingenious and droll,
Beheld the sovereign clouds as jugglery

And the sea as turquoise-turbaned *****, neat
At tossing saucers--cloudy-conjuring sea?
C'etait mon esprit batard, l'ignominie.

The sovereign clouds came clustering. The conch
Of loyal conjuration *******. The wind
Of green blooms turning crisped the motley hue

To clearing opalescence. Then the sea
And heaven rolled as one and from the two
Came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue.
Jasmine dryer Nov 2018
yes i'm sorry
all I wanted was to fix you
to fix you
but now your more broken then before
I just I wanted was for you to last longer
and be a little stronger
but I failed
I failed
but I will fail you no more
for your porcelain skin is to cracked
and your dress isn't even intact
and when I step back
and place you back on the shelf
I think of all that we've dealt with
and this toymaker
sad as i may be
have put you  away
i'm sorry
my black haired porcelain beauty
Kewayne Wadley Feb 2017
She was a porcelain figurine.
Fitted with big bright angel wings.
The arches of her heel lifted high.
The weight of emotions carried tall upon her back.
In mid flight she collapsed and broke a piece of her side.
Heart broken she feared that no one would look at her the same.
Once held high, looked to, to spread a ease of mind.
The burden of others piled high upon her back.
Not once did she notice the weight of her own.
Heartbroken she tried her best to hide her ceramic scar.
Afraid of what everyone would think.
A stone tear suddenly etched beneath her eye.
She tried her best to put the pieces back together, but no matter how she arranged them they just wouldn't fit.
Her wings now a dull off white, Her arch not as high as it once was.
She hid herself where no one would ever think to look.
Over by the street in the gutter where most leaves collected themselves.
It wasn't until she met a sad clown wearing torn clothes.
A dusty old hat. Sitting along the sidewalk of where she hid herself.
A blue tear painted on his upper cheek.
Soon as he saw the porcelain figurine he fell in love.
Collecting her broken pieces along with her hand. He loved her just the way she was.
The definition of her tear changed. Never before has she experienced such kindness from hands that asked for nothing in return.
Knowing only to give never once did she take the time to receive.
She looked astonished as he brushed the dirt from her wings.
Discarding her broken pieces in his pocket, replacing them with a piece of him
Liz And Lilacs May 2016
He was afraid that he said the wrong thing,
so I explained to him
that we are not porcelain,
we won't fall apart at the slightest of touches.
And as scared and small and frail as I feel,
I remind myself that I am
flesh and bone and muscle and mind
and a body that fights every day to keep me alive.
We are not porcelain,
so don't be afraid to jostle us, love.
It has been awhile, my friends. I write less poetry when I feel content.
You broke me.
Why can't you fix me?
Did the pieces cut your feet?
Did the porcelain make you bleed?
I know. It hurts, right?
The sting left inside at night?
And bandaids don't heal it,
they just made you cry,
Because you can't really fix it,
and you can't really fight.
And I understand the absence,
the advancements in my head,
A unique side to seeing,
a life trembling in death.
As I am standing,
to prove I'm awake,
How much more pain,
am I able to take?
None.
That's what you can't see;
the more I am feeling,
The less I am free-
All feedback is welcome and appreciated.
Sorry it's so sad.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
The courtesan and poet Zuo Fen had two cats Xe Ming and Xi Ming. Living in her distant court with only her maid Hu Yin, her cats were often her closest companions and, like herself, of a crepuscular nature.
      It was the very depths of winter and the first moon of the Solstice had risen. The old year had nearly passed.
      The day itself was almost over. Most of the inner courts retired before the new day began (at about 11.0pm), but not Zuo Fen. She summoned her maid to dress her in her winter furs, gathered her cats on a long chain leash, and walked out into the Haulin Gardens.
      These large and semi-wild gardens were adjacent to the walls of her personal court. The father of the present Emperor had created there a forest once stocked with game, a lake to the brim with carp and rich in waterfowl, and a series of tall structures surrounded by a moat from which astronomers were able to observe the firmament.
      Emperor Wu liked to think of Zuo Fen walking at night in his father’s park, though he rarely saw her there. He knew that she valued that time alone to prepare herself for his visits, visits that rarely occurred until the Tiger hours between 3.0am and 6.0am when his goat-drawn carriage would find its way to her court unbidden. She herself would welcome him with steaming chai and sometimes a new rhapsody. They would recline on her bed and discuss the content and significance of certain writings they knew and loved. Discussion sometimes became an elaborate game when a favoured Classical text would be taken as the starting point for an exchange of quotation. Gradually quotation would be displaced by subtle invention and Zuo Fen would find the Emperor manoeuvring her into making declarations of a passionate or ****** nature.
       It seemed her very voice captivated him and despite herself and her inclinations they would join as lovers with an intensity of purpose, a great tenderness, and deep joy. He would rest his head inside her cloak and allow her lips to caress his ears with tales of river and mountain, descriptions of the flights of birds and the opening of flowers. He spoke to her ******* of the rising moon, its myriad reflections on the waters of Ling Lake, and of its trees whose winter branches caressed the cold surface.

Whilst Zuo Fen walked in the midnight park with her cats she reflected on an afternoon of frustration. She had attempted to assemble a new poem for her Lord.  Despite being himself an accomplished poet and having an extraordinary memory for Classical verse, the Emperor retained a penchant for stories about Mei-Lim, a young Suchan girl dragged from her family to serve as a courtesan at his court.
      Zuo Fen had invented this girl to articulate some of her own expressions of homesickness, despair, periods of constant tearfulness, and abject loneliness. Such things seemed to touch something in the Emperor. It was as though he enjoyed wallowing in these descriptions and his favourite A Rhapsody on Being far from Home he loved to hear from the poet’s own lips, again and again. Zuo Fen felt she was tempting providence not to compose something new, before being ordered to do so.
      As she struggled through the afternoon to inject some fresh and meaningful content into a story already milked dry Zuo Fen became aware of her cats. Xi Ming lay languorously across her folded feet. Xe Ming perched like an immutable porcelain figure on a stool beside her low writing table.
Zuo Fen often consulted her cats. ‘Xi Ming, will my Lord like this stanza?’

“The stones that ring out from your pony’s hooves
announce your path through the cloud forest”


She would always wait patiently for Xi Ming’s reply, playing a game with her imagination to extract an answer from the cinnamon scented air of her winter chamber.
      ‘He will think his pony’s hooves will flash with sparks kindling the fire of his passion as he prepares to meet his beloved’.
      ‘Oh such a wise cat, Xi Ming’, and she would press his warm body further into her lap. But today, as she imagined this dialogue, a second voice appeared in her thoughts.
      ‘Gracious Lady, your Xe Ming knows his under-standing is poor, his education weak, but surely this image, taken as it is from the poet Lu Ji, suggests how unlikely it would be for the spark of love and passion to take hold without nurture and care, impossible on a hard journey’.
       This was unprecedented. What had brought such a response from her imagination? And before she could elicit an answer it was as though Xe Ming spoke with these words of Confucius.

“Do not be concerned about others not appreciating you, be concerned about you not appreciating others”

Being the very sensible woman she was, Zuo Fen dismissed such admonition (from a cat) and called for tea.

Later as she walked her beauties by the frozen lake, the golden carp nosing around just beneath the ice, she recalled the moment and wondered. A thought came to her  . . .
       She would petition Xe Ming’s help to write a new rhapsody, perhaps titled Rhapsody on the Thought of Separation.

Both Zuo Fen’s cats came from her parental home in Lingzhi. They were large, big-***** mountain cats; strong animals with bear-like paws, short whiskered and big eared. Their coats were a glassy grey, the hairs tipped with a sprinkling of white giving the fur an impression of being wet with dew or caught by a brief shower.
       When she thought of her esteemed father, the Imperial Archivist, there was always a cat somewhere; in his study at home, in the official archives where he worked. There was always a cat close at hand, listening?
       What texts did her father know by heart that she did not know? What about the Lu Yu – the Confucian text book of advice and etiquette for court officials. She had never bothered to learn it, even read it seemed unnecessary, but through her brother Zuo Si she knew something of its contents and purpose.

Confucius was once asked what were the qualifications of public office. ‘Revere the five forms of goodness and abandon the four vices and you can qualify for public office’.
       For the life of her Zuo Fen could not remember these five forms of goodness (although she could make a stab at guessing them). As for those vices? No, she was without an idea. If she had ever known, their detail had totally passed from her memory.
       Settled once again in her chamber she called Hu Yin and asked her to remove Xi Ming for the night. She had three hours or so before the Emperor might appear. There was time.
        Xe Ming was by nature a distant cat, aloof, never seeking affection. He would look the other way if regarded, pace to the corner of a room if spoken to. In summer he would hide himself in the deep undergrowth of Zuo Fen’s garden.
       Tonight Zuo Fen picked him up and placed him on her left shoulder. She walked around her room stroking him gently with her small strong fingers, so different from the manicured talons of her colleagues in the Purple Palace. Embroidery, of which she was an accomplished exponent, was impossible with long nails.
       From her scroll cupboard she selected her brother’s annotated copy of the Lun Yu, placing it unrolled on her desk. It would be those questions from the disciple Tzu Chang, she thought, so the final chapters perhaps. She sat down carefully on the thick fleece and Mongolian rug in front of her desk letting Xe Ming spill over her arms into a space beside her.
       This was strange indeed. As she sat beside Xe Ming in the light of the butter lamps holding his flickering gaze it was as though a veil began to lift between them.
       ‘At last you understand’, a voice appeared to whisper,’ after all this time you have realised . . .’
      Zuo Fen lost track of time. The cat was completely motionless. She could hear Hu Yin snoring lightly next door, no doubt glad to have Xi Ming beside her on her mat.
      ‘Xe Ming’, she said softly, ‘today I heard you quote from Confucius’.
      The cat remained inscrutable, completely still.
      ‘I think you may be able to help me write a new poem for my Lord. Heaven knows I need something or he will tire of me and this court will cease to enjoy his favour’.
      ‘Xe Ming, I have to test you. I think you can ‘speak’ to me, but I need to learn to talk to you’.
      ‘Tzu Chang once asked Confucius what were the qualifications needed for public office? Confucius said, I believe, that there were five forms of goodness to revere, and four vices to abandon’.
       ‘Can you tell me what they are?’
      Xe Ming turned his back on Zuo Fen and stepped gently away from the table and into a dark and distant corner of the chamber.
      ‘The gentle man is generous but not extravagant, works without complaint, has desires without being greedy, is at peace, but not arrogant, and commands respect but not fear’.
      Zuo Fen felt her breathing come short and fast. This voice inside her; richly-texture, male, so close it could be from a lover at the epicentre of a passionate entanglement; it caressed her.
      She heard herself say aloud, ‘and the four vices’.
      ‘To cause a death or imprisonment without teaching can be called cruelty; to judge results without prerequisites can be called tyranny; to impose deadlines on improper orders can be thievery; and when giving in the procedure of receipt and disbursement, to stint can be called officious’.
       Xe Ming then appeared out of the darkness and came and sat in the folds of her night cloak, between her legs. She stroked his glistening fur.
       Zuo Fen didn’t need to consult the Lu Yu on her desk. She knew this was unnecessary. She got to her feet and stepped through the curtains into an antechamber to relieve herself.
       When she returned Xe Ming had assumed his porcelain figure pose. So she gathered a fresh scroll, her writing brushes, her inks, her wax stamps, and wrote:

‘I was born in a humble, isolated, thatched house,
and was never well versed in writing.
I never saw the marvellous pictures of books,
nor had I heard of the classics of earlier sages.
I am dimwitted, humble and ignorant . . ‘


As she stopped to consider the next chain of characters she saw in her mind’s eye the Purple Palace, the palace of the concubines of the Emperor. Sitting next to the Purple Chamber there was a large grey cat, its fur sprinkled with tiny flecks of white looking as though the animal had been caught in a shower of rain.
       Zuo Fen turned from her script to see where Xe Ming had got to, but he had gone. She knew however that he would always be there. Wherever her imagination took her, she could seek out this cat and the words would flow.

Before returning to her new text Zuo Fen thought she might remind herself of Liu Xie’s words on the form of the Rhapsody. If Emperor Wu appeared later she would quote it (to his astonishment) from The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons.

*The rhapsody derives from poetry,
A fork in the road, a different line of development;
It describes objects, pictures and their appearance,
With a brilliance akin to sculpture and painting.
What is clogged and confined it invariably opens up;
It depicts the commonplace with unbounded charm;
But the goal of the form is of beauty well ordered,
Words retained for their loveliness when weeds have been cut away.
SP Blackwell Jan 2015
II

Do not be afraid, my darling
I see you.
I see your tattered spirit
and stripped flesh
wandering in darkness.
Alas!
we are kindred,
you and I,
for I too have been
murdered.
I have died a hundred times
and I have lived a
hundred and one
We, who are dead
but still breathing,
are kindred.
I have been poisoned by
the nectar of lust. And
this nectar was
sweet and it was
intoxicating and it was
addictive and it was
******* lust.
It was fed to me by
a man posing as
a god and he kept
my goblet full and
I was paralyzed.
He was not a god
nor a man.
He was a snake,
a false prophet.
The nectar was
venomous and
my blood,
my body, and
mind were
laced with
paralytic venom
I could not move
and died waiting.
Alas!
We are kindred
you and I.
We who have died
waiting and paralyzed.
We who have been
murdered by false
prophets and snakes.
We are kindred with
Eve and the apples of
Eden, we who are
poisoned but  
still alive.
In this paralytic state
a surgeon came
and he said unto me
“I will let you be free”
and he cut into me.
He entered my chest
so delicately and
so eloquently he
whispered to me
“ Darling, if I cannot
keep you I can’t let
you be free.”
He wanted a
keepsake, a piece
of my heart.
Something which I
would never just
willingly part.
He took a small
piece though I
screamed to
his claim. This
was not my love,
just blood,
muscle, and veins.
Alas!
We are kindred
you and I.
We who walk around
with pieces that will
never be found.
We who have filled
the empty cavity with
other objects to
replace what can
never mended.
Do not fear, my darling
we are still pumping
blood and we
are still alive!
An artistic healer
found me wandering.
He said unto me,
“ My love, I see your
rough edges and you
are flawless to me
with all your perfect
imperfections.”
I was his canvas
that could be remade
to what he wanted
me to portray.
He molded me,
bent me,
folded me,
painted me.
He chiseled away
at places that
were already weak
places that were
untouched by people
like He. I was his
muse which he
misused, abused,
and attempted to
create and sculpt
art, which I was,
to his vision
of what I should be.
He coated me,
plastered me,
froze me in time but
paper machete is fragile
and I never asked to
be molded or painted.
Slowly I broke free
from thee. Death by
art was not meant
for me
Alas!
My darling,
do not be afraid.
We are kindred
you and I.
I see you in all
your molded glory
upon the altar
which he built
to display a creation
which he did not create.
I am the one
who chiseled
at the cement
and the plaster
and the paper
and the alter
so that we can
escape a different
type of cage.
I see you broken
but uncaged.
A builder of dreams
approached me and
he said unto me
“ You are a rarity
in a world full of
mediocrity. A rare
bird like you should
not be caged.”
He built me a castle
made of sand and
deafened me with
promises which
were lies. The tide
rolled in and castles
made of sand were
taken back to sea
and i was deaf
and I could not
hear the rumbling ,
the crumbling,
the mumbling as it
was all swept away.
I was asphyxiated by
the sand and sea
of empty promises
and lies
and expectations
that I found myself
chocking on.
Do not be afraid my darling.
Alas!
We are kindred
you and I.
We have
swallowed
and choked
and  inhaled
the dirt which
posed as sand.
We who have been
drowned in lies.
We who have
been buried and
have touched the
ocean floor at great
depths have come back
to the surface.
Alas!
We are still swimming.
We are the ones who
saw the shore and
returned to land
with our feet firmly
planted on sinking sand
and unsteady ground.
Hush my darling, and do
keep our secret safe.
Hush and never let them
know that we, who are
dead but living, are the
ones who created the shore.
We have a multitude of
little deaths. Deaths which
showed us life, joy, and
pain.
Alas!
My darling,
we are kindred
you and I.
We are the masochists.
We invite the murders in.
We who see the axe in his
hand as he knocks and
yet we still allow the
murderous aftermath
to begin with no regard
for the clean up.
My darling, we take with
us a piece of our killers
as they have taken a
keepsake from us.
Alas!
My darling
we have taken
we have learned
we have observed
we have seen their
surgical precision as
they have taken us
apart. We have
mended and
stitched and
sewn and
glued and
filled and
repaired
ourselves.
Oh my darling
do not fear for
we who are
still alive
still fighting
still breathing
still living
still pumping blood,
we have taken
their murderous
intent. We who
were victimized
by batting eyes
and lies that left
bitterness as an
aftertaste have
have learned to
lace honey with
arsenic. We are
kindred, you and I.
We are different
now. The stichting
and filling
and sewing
and gluing
has changed
us.
We are not afraid,
my darlings.
We see you.
You who have
caged and
trampled and
opened and
taken and
broken and
killed are no
longer feared.
Be afraid
my darlings.
Alas!
We see you.

III

I am a serial killer.
I have ravaged
empty vessels
which once upon
a time were
filled with ideas
of what could be.
I am innocent!
I slay the murderers
who murdered me.
Those who murdered
we.
I and we have
perfected the craft
which you,
and you,
and you,
and you
have used as
weapons of
mass distraction,
mass destruction.
I am the one
who distracts
and destroys.  
I have ingested
sufficient venom
to become
arsenic laced
honey.
I have let a
man drink
from me ‘til
he could drink
no more. He
drank himself
to insanity.
Oh dear!
I fear I did
not warn him
of the venom
that’s within.
What once was
just plain honey
is now
poisonous
to him.
I am a serial killer.
The killer of
cervical slayers.
But again
I am innocent!
I once sheltered
a wretch and
he sought
sanctuary
inside of me.
He never looked
at my eyes.
Only prayed at
the church that
he made betwixt
my thighs.
Oh dear!
I fear
I did not mention
that this was not
his church. It was
my sanctuary which
was now covered
in his dirt.
Death by exertion
was his end.
I let him die *******
but I did not let
him win
A tragic death
for a stallion
like he. Because
I am small he
underestimated me.
Like Helen of Troy
I brought
destruction
upon thee.
I am a serial killer.
The killer of
psychological
terrorizers and
verbal mesmerizers.
I have linguistically
lobotomized men
who thought they
could philosophize
the origin of I.
I have sown the
seeds of doubt
within the halls of
confidence which
have lain within his
mind.
I have broken
fortress walls
that were built to
withstand the  
wrath that fell
upon *****
and Gomorrah.
We have cut out
the tongues of
our verbal
betrayers and
left them befuddled
in Babylon.  
Oh dear!
I fear I forgot
to mention that
Freud is my Father
and Jung is my
uncle.
Your mommy issues
do nothing for me.
I am not her!
I am a child of
psychology.
Rationally you are
weaker than me
mentally.
I am a serial killer.
The killer of
egotistical thrillers.
I have paralyzed
and anesthetized
men who have been
thrice the size of me.
My scalpel is sharp
and my steady hand
cuts as deep as my
verbal violations.
This is my body.
This is not your nation.
My dissection was but
a brief vacation to
your annihilation.
Your internal organs
were similar to an
egotistical colonoscopy.
You thought your
insides were different
from me.
You required proof
that we were the
same.
I said
“Let me cut first”
and you did not
complain.
Oh dear!
I fear I failed
to mention I’m
quite skilled and
I have killed before,
far better men and
even their ******.
I am a serial killer!
A killer of killers!
You are a cheap
thrill as I reap
and I sow.
I plant the seeds
that I know will
not grow.
You will stay frozen
and will get old.
I need not a keepsake.
I own your soul.

IV

We are naked.
Our flesh is worn
and our spirit torn.
The garments which
once kept us warm
are now just eaten
and tattered.
We have silently
walked
and waited
and paced ourselves
and learned hatred.
WE have come
back home where
board games and
Barbies wait.
I have broken
all my favorite toys
just like you
and you
and you
and the horse
you rode in on
have taken all
my simple joys.
You have all
taken away
a piece of pink
and replaced
with a piece of
grey. A piece
which will never
be the same.
Oh Darling!
Do not fear for me
do not fear for we.
We have become the
porcelain women
which watch
and wait.
Our pink colored
kingdom shall
never be invaded
because here we
are waiting.
Not even shoots
and ladders or even
the Madd Hatter
can lead you to
green pastures.
Oh my!
You failed to notice
the malicious
twinkle in
my eyes.
I fear this was
your fault
for you created
a steeple
betwixt my
thighs.
Silly rabbit,
we were never
yours.
I was always
mine.
This is
not revenge.
This is a warning
before the rhyme.

— The End —